Shakespeare and I have a cordial but distant relationship, forged in school classrooms and an exam hall many moons ago. So agreeing to review the Royal Shakespeare Company’s production of Hamlet feels a bit like saying yes to a coffee date with an intimidating old teacher. I’m concerned that this will either be an auditorium filled with academics who understand and enjoy iambic pentameter at a molecular level – or worse still, one filled with busloads of bored teens who have been whisked in for educational endurance testing, with no interest in being there at all.

There’s also the small matter of reputation. Hamlet isn’t just any old Shakespeare play; it’s the Shakespeare play. The big one. The “To be or not to be” one. The cultural heavyweight that has launched a thousand essays and at least as many cheesy parodies. I confess that I take my seat fully expecting three hours of worthy suffering. And yet, as the lights dim and the first uneasy figures appear, something shifts. The air tightens. The language, instead of floating past me like a confusing fog, seems to land with me. Perhaps this will be ok after all.

Ralph Davis is an extraordinary Hamlet – not the dusty, melancholic bore I half-expected. He is sharp, funny, and restless – a man of wit and charm. A man of many voices and faces. A man who captures our attention completely. In the “To be or not to be” soliloquy he doesn’t declaim; he confides. I feel less like I’m being lectured at and more like I’ve been let in on a secret. It’s all surprisingly relatable.

Raymond Coulthard’s Claudius oozes political polish. He’s the sort of leader who would absolutely dominate a corporate training day. His mournful sorrow over his past sin is writ large during a magnificently tense scene. Opposite him, Poppy Miller’s Gertrude is warm but watchful – not a fool, but a woman making uneasy compromises to survive. Their shared scenes fizz with tension that reads as clear as crystal.

Richard Cant’s Polonius steals the first half. He plays him not as a doddering bore but as a verbose, self-satisfied political operator with a knack for the wrong end of a stick and a penchant for the sound of his own wisdom. I find myself chuckling more than I expect. His interactions with Georgia-Mae Myers’ Ophelia are especially good. Myers gives Ophelia a quiet strength at first, which makes her later unravelling all the more painful. When her fragility surfaces, it feels real rather than ornamental.

The supporting cast builds a richly detailed world. Colin Ryan’s Horatio provides steady warmth, the friend you’d actually want in a crisis. Benjamin Westerby’s Laertes burns hot with indignation, offering a neat contrast to Hamlet’s philosophical approach to life.

Ian Hughes is the Ghost of the old King, and his spectral appearance is genuinely chilling – low-voiced, deliberate, and utterly commanding. I’m captivated by the whole thing.

The setting helps enormously because we are not in some echoing Danish castle but aboard a ship – all steel walkways, tight corners and the constant suggestion that there is nowhere to escape. The set (designed by Es Devlin) creaks and looms, and the image of a royal court trapped together on deck becomes a quietly brilliant metaphor. Video design (Akhila Krishnan) provides a very clever sense of time and movement, illustrating that there is no stable ground, just a crew forced to navigate grief, guilt and political mutiny while the hull groans and tilts alarmingly around them and time ticks away.

What surprises me most is how modern it all feels. I don’t catch every reference – I suspect no one does – but I never feel shut out. Instead, I feel trusted to keep up.

This production by Rupert Goold doesn’t present Hamlet as a mere marble monument to the bard; it feels urgent, human, and darkly funny. I came in braced for cultural homework. I leave wondering if I’ve misjudged Shakespeare all these years. If this is what the Royal Shakespeare Company does on tour, I for one, need to see more.